Piloto
by Saints
Summary: A quick view into one expilot life... Just read ... OH! and I don't owe Gundam Wing


To conciliate the uneasy status that could drive him to awful images of his past, usually called sleep, was never one of his virtues.

He was of all intelligent, clever, agile, strong, some even said handsome, but much to his own dismay, conceal at least two good hours of sleep, was not in him. He thought maybe sometime in the past it was, but not now.

An ingrate childhood, a soldier before being a proper teenager, a commando by the age of fifteen, someone who had performed massacres in the name of some lie they told him… and he could continue the entire night with the list.

By now he was a man, and with the knowledge he had… has, a name, a position, a life… but what a life… better will be to call it lie.

He kicked, like every night, the covers to the floor and went to the kitchen.

He should go to the lobby or the parlor, if he had one. He actually had the money to have a house, instead of the miniature apartment, that was no more than a bedroom, a kitchen (more better a kitchenette), an imitation of leaving room (at least the sofa bed could be open if necessary) and a bathroom, that not even had bath tub.

Well he never was a man for big houses, he hates cleaning and especially he hates the decision of furniture. He had helped from his best friend about it; she decided the big queen size bed, the little nightstand, the strong but smooth desk, the sofa bed and as a final touch the coffee table. It was a really little apartment, but why the need of something more, because of the money.

He had money in his pocket, his bank account… his multiple bank accounts, even some in the stock market. He prefers donations, anonymous donations, to orphan's homes, to shelter homes, to churches if they wore it, but a big house… he was what he was, and as sleep wasn't in his neither the self satisfaction of an avid consumer… his rule was, I bought what I need, and he needed a place to 'sleep' and keep his clothes… he also needed food for two meals (if soldier training left a good lesson is how to conserve the body by good alimentation and exercise): breakfast and dinner (he ate out by lunch); clothes (just enough to avoid the continue driving to the laundry) civilian and uniforms, even when he actually never use it; and of course the basic needs of a man in his earliest 20's razors, deodorant, soap, shampoo (maybe this could be on top), cologne, tooth brush, tooth paste, comb and coffee (no, this was on top of the list)… beside this his laptop and voila… he was an unsleeping man sitting in the counter waiting for the coffee machine to erupt the dark liquid from it.

Someone said he was addicted… he was. Beer was for bars, wine and champagne for polite meetings, coke for a hot days, but coffee was for every time, he loves it. Once done he served the oil in his personalized jar, he started to wonder about the artifact; it was a Christmas gift from young woman, who actually made an extensive three month research for the so called perfect gift. She wasn't aware of course, that he loved more her concerned for his tastes that the black, green and red muck whit a number delicate grabbed on a side. He didn't know until lately that same Christmas day that the cup was personalized for his tastes on coffee temperature, and that the device was build for him only… it was something weird to see so much concern from her behalf in something so worldly and ordinary, yet so exiting being treated as someone of such high stand that the worldly and ordinary matters seem to be so important… he loves his coffee jar as much he love the one who gave it to him.

He, against his Chinese counterpart, really like women a lot. Althought he likes to think the Chinese chauvinistic man was just using the 'I hate woman' mask as he use the 'I the stupid fool of the gang'.

He looked the watch over the medium size fridge, it read 1:34 am. Something between hot and cold pass through his back, as he lean in his desk seat, the black liquid screen blink while he wrote the words for his every night chat…

"So what's up H-man"

The reply didn't wait to long as from somewhere is some place in the interminable space the stoic man known for him as Heero reply

"Stop calling me that… MAXWELL"


End file.
